Complete Works of Robert Louis Stevenson

by Robert Louis Stevenson

  To see us tread so boldly here.

  Meanwhile, my Eve, with flower and grass

  Our perishable days we pass;

  Far more the thorn observe — and see

  How our enormous sins go free —

  Nor less admire, beside the rose,

  How far a little virtue goes.

  THE ANGLER ROSE, HE TOOK HIS ROD

  The angler rose, he took his rod,

  He kneeled and made his prayers to God.

  The living God sat overhead:

  The angler tripped, the eels were fed

  SPRING CAROL

  When loud by landside streamlets gush,

  And clear in the greenwood quires the thrush,

  With sun on the meadows

  And songs in the shadows

  Comes again to me

  The gift of the tongues of the lea,

  The gift of the tongues of meadows.

  Straightway my olden heart returns

  And dances with the dancing burns;

  It sings with the sparrows;

  To the rain and the (grimy) barrows

  Sings my heart aloud —

  To the silver-bellied cloud,

  To the silver rainy arrows.

  It bears the song of the skylark down,

  And it hears the singing of the town;

  And youth on the highways

  And lovers in byways

  Follows and sees:

  And hearkens the song of the leas

  And sings the songs of the highways.

  So when the earth is alive with gods,

  And the lusty ploughman breaks the sod,

  And the grass sings in the meadows,

  And the flowers smile in the shadows,

  Sits my heart at ease,

  Hearing the song of the leas,

  Singing the songs of the meadows.

  TO WHAT SHALL I COMPARE HER?

  To what shall I compare her,

  That is as fair as she?

  For she is fairer — fairer

  Than the sea.

  What shall be likened to her,

  The sainted of my youth?

  For she is truer — truer

  Than the truth.

  As the stars are from the sleeper,

  Her heart is hid from me;

  For she is deeper — deeper

  Than the sea.

  Yet in my dreams I view her

  Flush rosy with new ruth —

  Dreams! Ah, may these prove truer

  Than the truth.

  WHEN THE SUN COMES AFTER RAIN

  When the sun comes after rain

  And the bird is in the blue,

  The girls go down the lane

  Two by two.

  When the sun comes after shadow

  And the singing of the showers,

  The girls go up the meadow,

  Fair as flowers.

  When the eve comes dusky red

  And the moon succeeds the sun,

  The girls go home to bed

  One by one.

  And when life draws to its even

  And the day of man is past,

  They shall all go home to heaven,

  Home at last.

  LATE, O MILLER

  Late, O miller,

  The birds are silent,

  The darkness falls.

  In the house the lights are lighted.

  See, in the valley they twinkle,

  The lights of home.

  Late, O lovers,

  The night is at hand;

  Silence and darkness

  Clothe the land.

  TO FRIENDS AT HOME

  To friends at home, the lone, the admired, the lost

  The gracious old, the lovely young, to May

  The fair, December the beloved,

  These from my blue horizon and green isles,

  These from this pinnacle of distances I,

  The unforgetful, dedicate.

  I, WHOM APOLLO SOMETIME VISITED

  I, whom Apollo sometime visited,

  Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done,

  Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all

  The weariness of changes; nor perceive

  Immeasurable sands of centuries

  Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound

  Of generations beat the music down.

  TEMPEST TOSSED AND SORE AFFLICTED

  Tempest tossed and sore afflicted, sin defiled and care oppressed,

  Come to me, all ye that labour; come, and I will give ye rest.

  Fear no more, O doubting hearted; weep no more, O weeping eye!

  Lo, the voice of your redeemer; lo, the songful morning near.

  Here one hour you toil and combat, sin and suffer, bleed and die;

  In my father’s quiet mansion soon to lay your burden by.

  Bear a moment, heavy laden, weary hand and weeping eye.

  Lo, the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom here.

  VARIANT FORM OF THE PRECEDING POEM

  Come to me, all ye that labour; I will give your spirits rest;

  Here apart in starry quiet I will give you rest.

  Come to me, ye heavy laden, sin defiled and care opprest,

  In your father’s quiet mansions, soon to prove a welcome guest.

  But an hour you bear your trial, sin and suffer, bleed and die;

  But an hour you toil and combat here in day’s inspiring eye.

  See the feet of your deliverer; lo, the hour of freedom nigh.

  I NOW, O FRIEND, WHOM NOISELESSLY THE SNOWS

  I now, O friend, whom noiselessly the snows

  Settle around, and whose small chamber grows

  Dusk as the sloping window takes its load:

  * * * * *

  The kindly hill, as to complete our hap,

  Has ta’en us in the shelter of her lap;

  Well sheltered in our slender grove of trees

  And ring of walls, we sit between her knees;

  A disused quarry, paved with rose plots, hung

  With clematis, the barren womb whence sprung

  The crow-stepped house itself, that now far seen

  Stands, like a bather, to the neck in green.

  A disused quarry, furnished with a seat

  Sacred to pipes and meditation meet

  For such a sunny and retired nook.

  There in the clear, warm mornings many a book

  Has vied with the fair prospect of the hills

  That, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfills

  Halfway to the zenith all the vacant sky

  To keep my loose attention. . . .

  Horace has sat with me whole mornings through:

  And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true;

  And chattering Pepys, and a few beside

  That suit the easy vein, the quiet tide,

  The calm and certain stay of garden-life,

  Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife.

  There is about the small secluded place

  A garnish of old times; a certain grace

  Of pensive memories lays about the braes:

  The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days.

  Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil,

  Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hill

  Had made his secret church, in rain or snow,

  He cheers the chosen residue from woe.

  All night the doors stood open, come who might,

  The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night.

  Nor are there wanting later tales; of how

  Prince Charlie’s Highlanders . . .

  * * * * *

  I have had talents, too. In life’s first hour

  God crowned with benefits my childish head.

  Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flower

  Cast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead.

  Full many a shining godhead disappeared.

  From the
bright rank that once adorned her brow

  The old child’s Olympus

  * * * * *

  Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one,

  As, one by one, the means to reach them went,

  As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace,

  I squandered what . . .

  There shut the door, alas! on many a hope

  Too many;

  My face is set to the autumnal slope,

  Where the loud winds shall . . .

  There shut the door, alas! on many a hope,

  And yet some hopes remain that shall decide

  My rest of years and down the autumnal slope.

  * * * * *

  Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that I

  Loved, as all men have loved them; gone!

  I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high —

  Dreams of the knight’s stout heart and tempered will.

  Not in Elysian lands they take their way;

  Not as of yore across the gay champaign,

  Towards some dream city, towered . . .

  and my . . .

  The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain,

  Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey sky

  November’s russet woodlands toss and wail,

  Still the white road goes thro’ them, still may I,

  Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail.

  * * * * *

  I and my like, improvident sailors!

  * * * * *

  At whose light fall awaking, all my heart

  Grew populous with gracious, favoured thought,

  And all night long thereafter, hour by hour,

  The pageant of dead love before my eyes

  Went proudly, and old hopes with downcast head

  Followed like Kings, subdued in Rome’s imperial hour,

  Followed the car; and I . . .

  SINCE THOU HAST GIVEN ME THIS GOOD HOPE, O GOD

  Since thou hast given me this good hope, O God,

  That while my footsteps tread the flowery sod

  And the great woods embower me, and white dawn

  And purple even sweetly lead me on

  From day to day, and night to night, O God,

  My life shall no wise miss the light of love;

  But ever climbing, climb above

  Man’s one poor star, man’s supine lands,

  Into the azure steadfastness of death,

  My life shall no wise lack the light of love,

  My hands not lack the loving touch of hands;

  But day by day, while yet I draw my breath,

  And day by day, unto my last of years,

  I shall be one that has a perfect friend.

  Her heart shall taste my laughter and my tears,

  And her kind eyes shall lead me to the end.

  GOD GAVE TO ME A CHILD IN PART

  God gave to me a child in part,

  Yet wholly gave the father’s heart:

  Child of my soul, O whither now,

  Unborn, unmothered, goest thou?

  You came, you went, and no man wist;

  Hapless, my child, no breast you kist;

  On no dear knees, a privileged babbler, clomb,

  Nor knew the kindly feel of home.

  My voice may reach you, O my dear —

  A father’s voice perhaps the child may hear;

  And, pitying, you may turn your view

  On that poor father whom you never knew.

  Alas! alone he sits, who then,

  Immortal among mortal men,

  Sat hand in hand with love, and all day through

  With your dear mother wondered over you.

  OVER THE LAND IS APRIL

  Over the land is April,

  Over my heart a rose;

  Over the high, brown mountain

  The sound of singing goes.

  Say, love, do you hear me,

  Hear my sonnets ring?

  Over the high, brown mountain,

  Love, do you hear me sing?

  By highway, love, and byway

  The snows succeed the rose.

  Over the high, brown mountain

  The wind of winter blows.

  Say, love, do you hear me,

  Hear my sonnets ring?

  Over the high, brown mountain

  I sound the song of spring,

  I throw the flowers of spring.

  Do you hear the song of spring?

  Hear you the songs of spring?

  LIGHT AS THE LINNET ON MY WAY I START

  Light as the linnet on my way I start,

  For all my pack I bear a chartered heart.

  Forth on the world without a guide or chart,

  Content to know, through all man’s varying fates,

  The eternal woman by the wayside waits.

  COME, HERE IS ADIEU TO THE CITY

  Come, here is adieu to the city

  And hurrah for the country again.

  The broad road lies before me

  Watered with last night’s rain.

  The timbered country woos me

  With many a high and bough;

  And again in the shining fallows

  The ploughman follows the plough.

  The whole year’s sweat and study,

  And the whole year’s sowing time,

  Comes now to the perfect harvest,

  And ripens now into rhyme.

  For we that sow in the Autumn,

  We reap our grain in the Spring,

  And we that go sowing and weeping

  Return to reap and sing.

  IT BLOWS A SNOWING GALE

  It blows a snowing gale in the winter of the year;

  The boats are on the sea and the crews are on the pier.

  The needle of the vane, it is veering to and fro,

  A flash of sun is on the veering of the vane.

  Autumn leaves and rain,

  The passion of the gale.

  NE SIT ANCILLÆ TIBI AMOR PUDOR

  There’s just a twinkle in your eye

  That seems to say I might, if I

  Were only bold enough to try

  An arm about your waist.

  I hear, too, as you come and go,

  That pretty nervous laugh, you know;

  And then your cap is always so

  Coquettishly displaced.

  Your cap! the word’s profanely said.

  That little top-knot, white and red,

  That quaintly crowns your graceful head,

  No bigger than a flower,

  Is set with such a witching art,

  Is so provocatively smart,

  I’d like to wear it on my heart,

  An order for an hour!

  O graceful housemaid, tall and fair,

  I love your shy imperial air,

  And always loiter on the stair

  When you are going by.

  A strict reserve the fates demand;

  But, when to let you pass I stand,

  Sometimes by chance I touch your hand

  And sometimes catch your eye.

  TO ALL THAT LOVE THE FAR AND BLUE

  To all that love the far and blue:

  Whether, from dawn to eve, on foot

  The fleeing corners ye pursue,

  Nor weary of the vain pursuit;

  Or whether down the singing stream,

  Paddle in hand, jocund ye shoot,

  To splash beside the splashing bream

  Or anchor by the willow root:

  Or, bolder, from the narrow shore

  Put forth, that cedar ark to steer,

  Among the seabirds and the roar

  Of the great sea, profound and clear;

  Or, lastly if in heart ye roam,

  Not caring to do else, and hear,

  Safe sitting by the fire at home,

  Footfalls in Utah or Pamere:

  Though long the way, though hard to bear

  The sun and rain, the dust
and dew;

  Though still attainment and despair

  Inter the old, despoil the new;

  There shall at length, be sure, O friends,

  Howe’er ye steer, whate’er ye do —

  At length, and at the end of ends,

  The golden city come in view.

  THOU STRAINEST THROUGH THE MOUNTAIN FERN

  (A Fragment)

  Thou strainest through the mountain fern,

  A most exiguously thin

  Burn.

  For all thy foam, for all thy din,

  Thee shall the pallid lake inurn,

  With well-a-day for Mr. Swin-

  Burne!

  Take then this quarto in thy fin

  And, O thou stoker huge and stern,

  The whole affair, outside and in,

  Burn!

  But save the true poetic kin,

  The works of Mr. Robert Burn’

  And William Wordsworth upon Tin-

  Tern!

  TO ROSABELLE

  When my young lady has grown great and staid,

  And in long raiment wondrously arrayed,

  She may take pleasure with a smile to know

  How she delighted men-folk long ago.

  For her long after, then, this tale I tell

  Of the two fans and fairy Rosabelle.

  Hot was the day; her weary sire and I

  Sat in our chairs companionably nigh,

  Each with a headache sat her sire and I.

  Instant the hostess waked: she viewed the scene,

  Divined the giants’ languor by their mien,

  And with hospitable care

  Tackled at once an Atlantean chair.

  Her pigmy stature scarce attained the seat —

  She dragged it where she would, and with her feet

  Surmounted; thence, a Phaeton launched, she crowned

  The vast plateau of the piano, found

  And culled a pair of fans; wherewith equipped,

  Our mountaineer back to the level slipped;

  And being landed, with considerate eyes,

  Betwixt her elders dealt her double prize;

  The small to me, the greater to her sire.

  As painters now advance and now retire

  Before the growing canvas, and anon

  Once more approach and put the climax on:

  So she awhile withdrew, her piece she viewed —